As Anthony descended the narrow staircase, the air around him began to change.
The deeper he went, the colder it became. The damp chill of the earth seeped into the space, carrying with it the stale scent of herbs, chemicals, and something far less pleasant—something faintly rotten.
A faint glow soon appeared below.
At first it was only a dim flicker, but as he continued down the steps, the light grew stronger, revealing the source of it. Dozens of candles had been placed around the underground chamber, their flames swaying gently and casting uneven shadows across the stone walls.
When Anthony reached the bottom step, the full sight of the hidden laboratory revealed itself.
Shelves lined the walls, each one crowded with glass jars filled with dried herbs and strange substances. Some held powders of unusual colors, while others contained roots and leaves that had long since lost their natural form.
But those were not the most unsettling things in the room.
Several glass tanks stood nearby, their cloudy surfaces revealing disturbing contents within—preserved fragments of bodies floating in murky liquid. Hands, organs, and other unidentifiable pieces drifted slowly inside the glass, as if suspended in time.
Not far from them stood a large wooden table covered with various pieces of equipment. Metal instruments, vials, and small bottles were scattered across the surface in chaotic order.
And standing before the table was a woman.
Her back faced Anthony as she worked, carefully mixing liquids inside a small glass container. She appeared completely focused on the potion she was preparing, unaware that someone had entered her hidden refuge.
Anthony stopped a few steps behind her.
"Hello there," he said calmly.
The woman froze.
Then she turned around.
The sight of her face would have been enough to make most people recoil in horror. Her skin looked like rotting flesh, pale and uneven, as though decay had slowly eaten away at it over the years. Parts of it sagged loosely against her bones, while dark veins crept across the surface like spreading cracks.
Her eyes bulged unnaturally, appearing far too large for her face, and the expression they carried was sharp with irritation.
The moment she recognized Anthony, that irritation deepened.
"How did you find me?" she demanded.
Though she tried to sound composed, a faint tremor of fear slipped into her voice.
Anthony remained completely calm, his expression unchanged as he studied her grotesque face.
"Come on," he said simply. "Let's go."
His voice carried no anger, no urgency—just quiet certainty.
The witch's eyes narrowed.
"And if I refuse?" she asked slowly.
Anthony did not answer right away.
Instead, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out two items. One was a cigar, the other a small metal lighter.
He placed the cigar between his lips and flicked the lighter open. A small flame burst to life as he lit the tip of the cigar, drawing in a slow breath before allowing the smoke to escape into the air.
The smoke drifted lazily through the room.
But the moment it reached the witch's side of the chamber, her reaction was immediate.
Her eyes widened—not in shock, but in sudden pain.
She stumbled back slightly, raising a hand toward her face as the smoke brushed against her.
"Okay, okay!" she cried quickly, her voice now strained with discomfort. "I'll go! I'll go!"
She waved her hands frantically in front of her face, trying to push the smoke away.
"But please turn it off!" she added desperately.
Anthony's lips curved faintly in amusement.
Without another word, he gestured toward the staircase.
"After you."
Reluctantly, the witch turned and began walking toward the stairs, muttering under her breath as she went.
Anthony followed behind her, the cigar still resting between his fingers.
Christiana rolled off the bed, her mind restless with the same thoughts that had plagued her for days.
She had dressed earlier in one of the gowns left in the wardrobe—a simple cream dress that fit her surprisingly well. Her hair had been braided neatly into a single plait that fell down her back, though a few loose strands framed her face after hours of pacing the room.
Her blue eyes swept across the chamber slowly.
The room was beautiful, almost mockingly so. Everything inside spoke of comfort and luxury, yet none of it mattered while she remained trapped inside. The polished furniture, the soft bedding, the elegant curtains—it was all meaningless.
What she needed was a way out.
Her gaze suddenly landed on a wooden chair near the small writing table.
Without hesitating, she strode toward it and grabbed it firmly by the backrest. Her fingers tightened around the wood as a desperate idea took hold of her mind.
If she could not unlock the door… perhaps she could break it.
With a sharp breath, she lifted the chair and hurled it with all her strength against the door.
The impact echoed loudly through the room.
Wood splintered as the chair shattered on contact, pieces scattering across the floor.
But the door itself did not move.
Not even slightly.
Christiana stared at it in disbelief for only a moment before anger flared inside her chest.
She rushed toward the door and began striking it with her fists.
"Let me out of here!" she shouted, her voice cracking with desperation. "Let me out! Let me out! LET ME OUT!"
Her screams filled the hallway beyond the door, echoing faintly through the empty corridors of the castle.
But no one answered.
The silence that followed only made the situation feel more suffocating.
Christiana stepped back from the door, breathing heavily as she forced herself to think. Her eyes darted around the room again, searching for anything—anything at all—that might help her break free.
That was when she noticed another chair.
Without wasting time, she grabbed it.
Her frustration and fear fueled her strength as she lifted it high before throwing it straight at the door.
The chair smashed apart instantly upon impact.
Wood cracked and splintered violently against the solid surface.
Yet once again, the door remained untouched.
The realization hit her like a blow.
Her hands trembled as tears filled her eyes, frustration and helplessness swelling painfully inside her chest.
For a moment she thought she might break down completely.
But she refused to cry.
Christiana squeezed her eyes shut and blinked rapidly, forcing the tears to dry before they could fall.
She would not give whoever imprisoned her the satisfaction of seeing her broken.
Just then—
She heard something.
Footsteps.
They were coming from the hallway outside the room.
Christiana's eyes snapped toward the door.
Her expression darkened instantly.
Whoever was approaching had chosen the worst possible moment.
Because this time…
She would not let them leave until she was free.